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Hi, I'm Machiavelli Niccolo and I'm a Super High School Level Diplomat!
Haha, just kidding. I'm really just a normal guy going to a normal highschool for young political figures. In fact, today's my very first day!
...oh no, I'm late for Historia School!
Machiavelli jogged through the gate of Historia High just as the bell was ringing the start of home room. Oh, if only he hadn't stopped to place a fette biscottate daintily in his perfect lips before rushing out the door, he may have made it in time!
He had to enter the classroom incredibly sheepishly, to which the professor simply shook her head and sentenced him to an empty desk in the middle of the classroom. He slumped into his chair, hoping no one would pick on him too much for his embarrassing tardiness. As he pulled his notebook out of his bag, he discovered that his hope was in vain.
"Being late to a battle makes you freeze in the Russian wastes," an icy voice hissed from next to him. Machiavelli turned to look at the person who spoke, only to see the most stunning boy he had ever laid eyes on. That high collar! Those sharp facial features! That shimmery black bowlcut!
It took everything in him not to swoon, but he was sure the other boy could see the blush on his face. He glanced over at Machiavelli, not changing his sternly upright posture in the slightest, before flushing slightly at the red on our dear protagonist's cheeks. With a click of his tongue and a mutter in French, he went back to paying attention to the professor's lecture.
Oh, French. How glorious.
It was such an effort for Machiavelli to keep himself focused on his work. As it was, it would normally be terribly difficult for him to deal with such droll subjects as his maths and art when he'd far prefer to be working on all of his vast plans for the future, philosophical systems and concepts of ethical rule, but he was also so incredibly distracted by the brief interaction with the handsome young man next to him. The daze surrounded him through the end of class. When the bell rung, the french boy packed up too quickly for Machiavelli to get the chance to ask his name, much to the poor boy's distress.
He decided to gather his things up as well as he could and chase the boy in the hall. Their moment was just too perfect, too sugoishoujoyaoi to leave it as it was, he had to...
Ponf.
Machiavelliran into something hard, falling back against a locker. Dazed, he looked up to see a somewhat irritated looking upperclassman glaring at him.
"Another kid too busy chasing Bonaparte to watch where he's going?" the boy said, flexing muscles that looked like they had seen more than their fair share of hard labor. Machiavelli gulped, unsure whether this was fear or something else he was feeling. Before he had the chance to analyze his feelings, he found a hand pushing his shoulder hard, and dark eyes staring in his.
"So, are you going to apologize?"
Machiavelli whimpered, and the other student laughed.
"I'm not sure if anyone explained how things work around here," the boy said, pushing Machiavelli further into the lockers, "but in this school, the name Benito Mussolini rules."
Mussolini smirked and let him go. He glanced up at the clock in the hallway and frowned.
"I'd love to stand around and chat," he said cooly, "but Hitler-kun and Hirohito-san are waiting for me. You lucked out." He flipped a somewhat rude gesture at Machiavelli before turning on his heels to leave. "See you around, Maka-chan."
Machiavelli stared after him in disbelief, heart pounding. Well, he made it through the encounter, that was enough, right? He was fine...
He called me "chan!"
It was a long walk home to Machiavelli's house, where he lived alone. As a teenager. Like all good animu boys and girls. He threw his bag on the ground as soon as he was inside. He felt hungry and sort of hollow, but he didn't think he could start boiling the pasta. Maybe it was a pizza night; American crap though he knew the delivery would be, the idea of cooking was just too tiring at the moment.
He went directly to his bedroom and flopped on his bed, sighing up at the ceiling. He wanted to think of his homework, he really did, but he just couldn't take those two boys out of his head. Between Bonaparte and Mussolini...what was he to do?
Oh, this was going to be the most trying school year.